


Giving It All

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, This was supposed to be a drabble, belated Christmas fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5810653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's second Christmas at CID, the annual gift exchange goes off without a hitch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giving It All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xysabridde](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xysabridde/gifts).



> I wanted to write a drabble last week so I asked **xysabridde** for a prompt. She gave me _Sam/Gene, wallpaper_ with a side of _sticky Annie_... and this is what happened. It is not, in any way, shape or form, a drabble, but who cares! I wrote more Christmas fic on accident, I'm so terribly sorry.
> 
> Beta for this one was handled by **Loz**! If there's any left over mistakes, I'll probably notice them in a year when I decide to reread this story randomly. Sorry for that!

Sam's second Christmas at CID, the annual gift exchange goes off without a hitch. It helps that he had prior awareness of the event, news of it having been sprung on him last minute first time around. He was able to make a list, and plan things out, and get something suitably appropriate for each of his team-mates, instead of having to cram a season's worth of shopping into one rushed lunch hour, and that the day of.

He's never been that fond of Christmas, even when he should have as a child. He's always known you had to _try_. Try, the way his mum always did, even though he saw just how sad the holiday made her – his mum couldn't hide it completely, Sam having been a thoughtful, observant child. Aunty Heather helped too, even if that meant making sure the house was full to bursting with well-meaning relatives, too much noise and too much cheer. It became a quieter affair when he was older, but he'd already learned his lesson: sometimes you had to do things you didn't really want to, just for the sake of keeping up appearances.

Never get your hopes up too high: that leads to general unhappiness, and misspent expectations, as well as a whole lot of remorse.

Decades later, it's a habit he still hasn't grown out of completely. 1974, though, has taught him a few unexpected things along the way, in general having been so much better than he ever could have hoped for, or planned. At some points, it was definitely more than he could have deserved.

Given that this is all he's got now, he doesn't want to bollocks it all up. He's going to try as hard as possible. Even for something as inconsequential as this, he's tired of letting them all down.

–

It had, in the end, been a very good night. After the exchange itself, the awkward highlight of the evening would have been when Chris, trying his best to open a bottle of champagne and failing rather spectacularly, had sprayed it all across Annie's front. While some had laughed, Sam had felt mortified on Annie's behalf, but he'd kept it to himself since Annie herself took it with a great deal of aplomb. Chris was tripping over himself already, apologising profusely (Ray, of course, was sniggering, but you win some and you lose some). Even Sam had laughed when Annie shook the bottle up and sprayed Chris in turn.

'Fair's fair,' she'd said, and they both were able to complain about being sticky across the next few hours, at least until the party had wound down to its end.

It's even later now, just Sam and Gene left in the office, gaudy bits of Christmas decorations strewn about the place, and neither of them ready to take themselves home. There's some snoring nearby, several of their officers having passed out after one drink too many, but the mood is warm, leisurely, downright comfortable. It's hardly the first time ever that they'd spent and wasted away the end of an evening, just sitting and drinking. It's almost always been the perfect waste of time.

'Is this what we've been reduced to, hrm?'

Sam's scowl is half from confusion, half from too much drink. He shifts about in his chair, straightens up some, peers at Gene and the article in question: that's the tie Sam got him for the office exchange, dangling from his fingers. Sam has to think about it for a few moments before he can string together a coherent response – his head's just that side of too pleasantly addled, and it feels rather nice.

'It's a tie – you've got plenty of ties already. I don't quite see what the problem is, Guv.'

It shouldn't surprise him though, should it? Gene would take offence to his present, just the way he takes offence at the colour of Sam's shirts, or whatever 'nancy' thing he's last said. The exchange had gone so well – even if Sam had pushed himself too hard to make sure he had something for everyone. Overextending himself was just one of those _things_ that he was good at, not that it always led to beneficial results.

Tonight, though, it's not been bad at all: even Ray had seemed touched with the care that Sam had taken, and kept his smarmy comments to himself. That was something akin to a miracle. This, though, Gene making something out of nothing, the way Sam would do the same, is Gene being Gene.

'You wouldn't.' Gene sniffs, glancing sideways at the article in question. 'But then, you never do.'

It isn't just any tie. It's the nicest Sam's seen in three decades, the sort he would have worn back when he was a DCI. It's dark grey, charcoal almost, and woven of heavy silk. The cut is absolutely perfect, and Gene has a number of suits – well, there's the two that Sam can think of – that will be suitably flattered by it being a part of the ensemble. It's somewhat more sombre than the rest of Gene's ties, sleek and professional where, in comparison, too many of his give Sam traumatic flashbacks to the wallpaper in his old flat (his _new_ flat, on the other hand, has walls painted a colour _he_ picked out specifically – it wasn't even easy, finding that specific shade, a very relaxing eggshell blue, but it was well worth the money, time, and effort). It's the sort of present he'd have _loved_ to receive, and this from a man who was almost always being gifted ties. He'd put a lot of thought into it before buying it – for one, it cost a pretty penny, and two... well, would Gene like it? After over-thinking the matter for several days, he'd come to the conclusion that Gene would love it too. When Gene _did_ feel like like putting the right amount of effort into it, he did like looking his best.

'Is this... is this actually a problem?'

Gene shrugs, folds the tie over and sets it back into the tissue-lined box, gaudy bits of paper strewn about it on the desktop. 'Dunno – you feel like making it into one?'

Sam hesitates a moment, but it doesn't take too long to make up his mind. He gets the feeling that Gene is teasing him, which is what friends sometimes do, and that must mean it's okay for him to tease back. He's been getting a whole lot of that of late, with him settling into staying, navigating the tricky waters of life in 1974 – things are, at times, just as complicated as they'd been back in 1973, only now he's 100% lucid. Some things have been harder than others, but other than when Gene confuses him completely, he's finally starting to believe this is where he _belongs_.

Bits are missing, of course. For the most part, though...

No wonder he wants to give it his best.

'I hope you give it a try, Guv – honestly, it's very flattering. Brings out the colour of your eyes.'

Gene snorts indelicately, snags his tumbler up from off the table, whisky sloshing about. Sam smiles, still somewhat perplexed – he was being honest, did Gene not know how to take a compliment?

Still, he's emboldened by Gene's amused response, even as it confuses him, so Sam relaxes back into his chair and reaches for his own glass. 'Thought I should get you something extra-nice, that's all. Something just as nice as the watch you bought me.'

The watch, though, hadn't been a Christmas present, had it? No, that was something else entirely – a new flask, personalised and all, and all for _Sam_. The watch was four months back, a very bad day in August, and at Sam's mention of it, Gene's expression hardens. Sam feels the room twist about him, staring across at Gene, how his eyes have gone steely, his jaw tense. The bafflement is beyond extraordinary. Sam's very good at saying the wrong thing, it's clear he's just done that.

Just as inexplicably, his expression softens. Gene relaxes as well, stretching his leg out, bumping his knee against Sam's. 'Had to though, didn't I? Seeing as how I busted the last.'

'Hardly your fault, was it? Lawrence Jones had trouble with authority, and I can be a mouthy git without even trying. We knew that from the bloody start, but it was a risk I was willing to take.' Sam wants to shrug, but holds back – Gene, across from him purses his lips, shakes his head.

'Yeah, but doesn't mean he needed to get so handsy with you, did it?'

'I suppose you're right,' Sam admits, biting his lower lip. He remembers it very clearly, Lawrence getting out of hand and lashing out, and in the process closing a door on his arm – if it hadn't been for Sam's watch getting in the way, his wrist would have taken the full brunt of the attack. As it was, it was a minor fracture instead of a major crack. 'But hey, it wasn't too bad, was it – at least the only important thing that got broken was easy to replace.'

Some people say Sam doesn't have a sense of humour – he does, but it's very, very dry. It doesn't help that he's self-deprecating at times, well, no, pretty much all the time. It also doesn't help that he's been drinking, because that makes him looser with his words – not that he thinks any of it's the truth. Gene's fond enough of using this sort of humour himself, so there's really no telling why he's suddenly taking exception to it, and Sam hadn't even said anything that terrible, had he?

Only, given the way Gene's looking at him, Sam _had_. He's clearly decided he doesn't appreciate Sam's poor attempt at a joke, sat up straight now, no longer comfortably relaxed. His eyes have gone hard again, something rigid in the way he's got his head held up, the grip on his glass having tightened. He's looking straight at Sam now, and Sam could hide away by taking a drink of his whisky, or by standing up and leaving, or – well, anything, really.

He doesn't. He's caught up in Gene's gaze, mouth hanging open. He wants to say something else, something to take the sting out of what he's said, but it's too late for that. It wasn't too bad, but they've both been drinking, and they both have ways of saying one thing and meaning something else. It goes beyond things hidden between the lines, something deeper: it's a constant game of reading between the words.

'Don't do that,' Gene whispers, low as anything.

Sam blinks, surprised. 'What?'

'Say things like that – it isn't funny. You act like you don't matter. You do.'

Sam swallows, throat gone dry. 'Oh?' He could fight about it, if he wanted, but he finds he doesn't want to: yes, Gene makes jokes like this all the time, and Sam's said nastier things and Gene's not batted an eyelash. He bites his tongue and holds it all in.

Gene, on the contrary, has plenty more to say.

'To me. To the plonk. To that bloody bloke snoring under Ray's desk. You're a part of this team, Sam. I...' Gene reaches up, rubs at the back of his neck. He'd had no trouble looking Sam in the eye just two seconds before, but now he's gone nervous, the way Sam's still stuck at _confused_. 'You can be a pain from time to bloody time, and I think that's what they call an _understatement_. But that doesn't mean you aren't wanted – that you don't matter. Sometimes I...' Sometimes they hate each other – Sam's sure that's what Gene meant to say, even if he couldn't bring himself to say it. 'There may come a time I'll want to take it all back, but right now? I'm glad you're here, Sam – here, with me. In CID. It's where you belong.'

Gene lifts his head back up, and eye contact resumes. Sam's face aches all over as he gives in and smiles. There's a whole lot he could say, back to self-deprecating, but he just doesn't have it in him. Gene's smiling right back at him, something carefree – open, honest, _real_ – about it. Gene's not taking the piss with him – what would he get out of it, really?

'I... Thank you.'

Gene nods briskly, then sniffs at his whisky before downing the rest of it. Sam leans back into the sturdy support of his chair and is, very simply, glad to exist.

–

A few more drinks and Sam's nodding off in his chair, and who knows how long it is until Gene's hand is on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Sam groans and blinks up at him, Gene looming to his side. Somewhere behind him, someone snores. 'Come on,' Gene murmurs, Sam making a pre-emptive assumption on his part and nodding, 'I'm driving you home.'

The nodding makes sense, as does Gene's hand tightening about his arm, the lazy way Gene's pulling him to his feet. Sam smiles at him, lurches and bumps against him. There's a moment where absolutely nothing happens at all, beyond what _has_ happened: that being Gene's arm, dropping down to loop about his waist, helping him stand.

'Hmm,' Sam exhales, leaning into it, cheek to Gene's shoulder. 'You smell like Christmas.' Christmas, and smoke, and too much booze. He closes his eyes only to open them, smiling into Gene's strangely empty face. Not empty, no, just carefully guarded. There's something hidden in plain sight, and right in front of him – it isn't that it's Gene's eyes, or the whole of Gene's face.

Maybe it's something, nameless and tentative, hooked onto the curve of Gene's lips.

'Go on then, Gladys,' Gene says, giving him a nudge. He lets go of him, and Sam stumbles again, snagging his jacket up off the chair. Gene never seems as moved by his drink as he ought to be, but Sam's walking on water right now. He could fall asleep on the settee in Gene's office, what's the point in Gene driving him home?

He gets his jacket on, doesn't care to button it up. Gene's left him for a moment, and as Sam slips the new flask into his left inner pocket, Gene strides out of his office, doors swinging shut behind him. He's got his coat on now, that splendid length of camel-hair. Sam picks up the lid for the box and settles it in place, before holding it out to Gene. Gene eyes it, then Sam, and when he reaches out to take hold of the box, their fingers touch.

They stand like that for an awkward moment. 'I do like it, you know.'

'Hngh?'

Gene gives a little snort, shaking his head and tugging the box away from Sam's suddenly lax grip. He waves the box from side to side before sliding it into one of his side pockets, then gesturing with his suddenly free hand. 'The tie, you bloody div. I like it. Was just a bit of harmless wind up, before – hope it didn't go to your head.'

Sam grins, laughing at the absurdity of it all. 'It didn't, don't worry. I'm glad you like it. It really does complement your eyes.'

Gene doesn't laugh now. He doesn't look amused, just thoughtful, and Sam should probably keep what Gene's said in mind and not let _let_ one go to his head, either. 'That so?'

Sam nods, still grinning. 'Yep.'

Gene makes a soft noise, equally thoughtful. They stare at each other a few moments more, Gene deep in thought, Sam grinning. The room's so fuzzy about him, it's got Sam feeling like they're the only two people who exist in all the world, an illusion that's burst just as soon as one of the sleeping officers snores.

Sam chuckles. Gene rolls his eyes, puts his hand on Sam's shoulder, turns him around and starts steering him across the bullpen. Sam's feet trip-up beneath him, him coming to a full and complete (if somewhat unsteady) stop once they're half-way out the door.

'Oi,' Gene growls. 'What's that for?'

Something is pressing at Sam's mind, if only he could figure it out – and oh, he does. He points upwards, grinning like a loon. Gene's eyes roll upwards as he glances at what Sam's pointing at, and who knows what would lead Sam to point to it, other than madness.

He hasn't bollocksed it up quite yet, and he's never been one to leave well enough alone.

'I see it, yeah,' Gene says, looking at Sam, instead of the dangling mistletoe. 'Ray was shitting himself laughing when he put the bloody stuff. Why, what are you trying to say?'

Sam chuckles all over again, stuck on a loop. Maybe he's had too much of a good thing, and he's hopelessly drunk and he wants to see just how far he can push – maybe 1974's been too good to him already, and Sam needs to find out just what else it's got in store for him, even this close to its end. It's a risky endeavour, but a risk he's willing to take – the year's been too good to him, and here's Sam hoping against hope.

Gene wants him here, and Sam wants it too. That much Sam understands. It gives Sam something to work with, and just like everything else, he's going to give it his best. 'Well, we're standing beneath it an' all,' Sam states the obvious, rocking back onto his heels. 'You do know what that means we're supposed t'do, right?'

'Of course I do,' Gene says, sighs, sliding an arm about Sam's shoulders. Sam startles, but then relaxes into it, smiling into the very chaste kiss Gene's just pressed to his lips. He smiles into it some more, then dares push a little harder – he slowly licks across Gene's lips, tastes whisky and more whisky, and given the way Gene's just groaned, he's either just done a very good, or a very bad thing.

Which could it be?

'Guv?'

Gene lets him go, simple as that, then reaches up to give Sam's shoulder an awkward pat. 'How about we continue this discussion when you're not pissed off your head?'

Sam thinks about it, then smiles some more, and – because Gene is taking it all remarkably well – nods. 'I'd like that, yeah.'


End file.
